


oh, I would carry you over fire and water (for your love)

by stardustlupin



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Reunion Sex, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Soft Lambert (The Witcher), Soft Witchers (The Witcher), Sort Of, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28612830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustlupin/pseuds/stardustlupin
Summary: Lambert lunged forward, closing the scant few inches between them until their lips were pressed together. It was an artless, graceless mashing of soft flesh against soft flesh that only got more urgent as Eskel’s hands roved under his shirt, exploring his body with equal parts passion and reverence.This is just tender Lambskel lovin'
Relationships: Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 63





	oh, I would carry you over fire and water (for your love)

Eskel was there when he awoke. He was always there, every winter since his first. Lambert would stumble through the courtyard gates, sleep dragging his body down to the rough stone floor, already spattered here and there with snow. And warm, thick arms would catch him; curling under his body and wholly lifting him up. 

That first year, he held onto consciousness as long as possible, confused and more than a little suspicious of the other witcher. He couldn’t open his eyes, but he could feel himself being carried upstairs to a room — new to him, now there he was a witcher on the Path, and all his since there were so few left. There was already a fire going in the hearth, and the room was almost sultry compared to the biting cold he had just come in from. He felt as large hands — surprisingly deft and gentle for their size — carefully stripped him of his clothes, and wiped off the sweat and dirt crusted to his skin with a wet, warm washcloth. 

Those hands, that washcloth went everywhere, cleansing every inch of his skin. He thought he would fight if he had to, or he’d fight to fight anyway, but the thought became irrelevant when he was carefully dressed in fresh braes and a soft shirt, and tucked under layers and layers of furs. _Sleep now little wolf_ he’d heard a voice say, rumbling so soft and low, for a moment he thought that the mountain itself was speaking, _you’re safe_.

And sleep he did.

It went like that every year; despite Lambert staying in or close to Kaedwen, Eskel always got back at Kaer Morhen first, and he’d be up and waiting by the time Lambert arrived. Every winter he fell asleep faster, easier, sooner, until one year he passed out right there in the courtyard, trusting that those same, strong hands would catch him before his knees hit the ground. 

That year was full of firsts. 

Eskel was sitting in an armchair, a few feet away from the foot of the bed when he woke up. Though it was his room, Lambert always thought of it as Esekl’s chair, for the older witcher was the sole reason for its presence. His scent was always infused into the soft leather after his week-long vigil; suffused into the fleece that was then draped over the back of the chair; the fleece he slept under at night, unwilling to leave Lambert’s bedside.

Every winter he and Eskel got closer and closer, (Eskel was an easy man to love, once you’d shown you weren’t horrified by his scars he was all bright smiles and easy touches) and Lambert spent more and more time curled in that chair, burrowing his face into that fleece. It started with a cursory sniff, then a deep inhale; he became increasingly addicted to that smell until, the winter before, he spent every second of every day in the desperate pursuit of more. 

That year he slid from his bed and sauntered over to Eskel’s chair on legs rendered coltish by disuse. It was night, and he was still swimming through the thick, almost liquid fog of sleep, and his head felt as light and as empty as his stomach. Thusly dazed, he thought nothing of allowing himself onto the other man’s lap, and hooking his arms around his neck. “Hey,” he said, as though it were every other winter. 

If Eskel was startled, he did a bloody good job of hiding it. His hands had come up to hold Lambert’s hips, to keep him steady more than anything else, but the younger man relished the touch anyway. “Hi.”

“Why?” Lambert blurted out, apropos of nothing.

A frown deepened the crease between Eskel’s eyebrows. “Why what?” 

“Every winter you — why?” Eskel’s hands hadn’t moved, wouldn’t, Lambert knew, but he wished they would.

The older witcher’s eyes were cast down, examining the spot where Lambert’s body met his as he considered his answer. “I worried,” he said eventually. “It was your first year, you’re the only one left of your class, there are so few of us left at all, so I worried.”

Something deflated in Lambert’s chest then, but he still had enough air in him, enough hope, to ask — “And now?”

Eskel’s silence this time was not in search of the right words, rather, they were right there in his mouth, eager to burst forth heedless of any wisdom. Eventually, they proved too strong, too true to keep in. “I worry because I miss you.”

Lambert lunged forward, closing the scant few inches between them until their lips were pressed together. It was an artless, graceless mashing of soft flesh against soft flesh that only got more urgent as Eskel’s hands roved under his shirt, exploring his body with equal parts passion and reverence. 

Despite his best efforts, Eskel refused to give Lambert everything that night. “We have time,” he insisted, the words breathed against the soft skin of Lambert’s neck, “and I want to do this right.”

It was days of gentle touches and careful fingers before Eskel deemed him ready, and Lambert knew on that first slide in, when felt that first flood of glowing, liquid fire settle deep in his gut, that he would go through all seven realms of hell, and square off with the Eternal Flame itself, if only to get back to this man. 

Alright, so it was a little dramatic, and it’s not like he didn’t love the guy before, but that was the first time he let himself _feel_ it, and felt loved in return. 

That was decades ago. You’d think, by now, the intensity of their couplings would have tempered somewhat, and they did, sort of. At least, it would slow down, weeks into winter they’d start to get lazy, idly nipping, petting, tugging, their writhing and thrusting just the right side of sloppy as they smiled at each other, occasionally dissolving into breathless chuckles. 

But the first time? Every first time of every winter was a revelation. This one was no different; Lambert woke up, and Eskel pounced on him, pinning his hands above his head, taking an ear between his teeth before moving down with open mouthed kisses. His hands slid down Lambert’s body, grabbing and massaging his lover’s firm, lean muscles as he sucked a trail of love bites down Lambert’s neck. Those hands slid down his legs, between them, ravenous, as if needing the assurance of touching every part of him to make sure he was all there, that he was real, that he had survived another treacherous year and come back to him.

And Lambert’s hands did the same; checking for new scars and relishing in the old ones; in the feel of familiarity; of the dips and curves unique to the bear of a man he had made his home. 

They both gasped when that first, slow glide ended with the meeting of their hips, and Eskel dropped forward to drape himself over his lover, so much more slender than himself. Neither of them moved as they basked in the heat of each other’s skin, inhaled the scent of their combined musks through their mouths so as to taste it. 

When Eskel did move, it was with all the grace of a rolling tide; his body rippling over Lambert’s like a large cat prowling the verdant jungles beyond the Zerrikanian desert. Each slide and thrust was like a burst of warm, deep pink light carved into the shape of a hundreds of thousands of glimmering butterfly wings, set to clockwork and fluttering through Lambert’s body, escaping his parted lips in soft moans and gasps that kissed Eskel’s cheeks. 

Eskel dipped his head and their lips slotted together — more practiced than that first time, but no less hungry. His tongue delicately swiped Lambert’s skin, and he took his plush lower lip between his teeth, tugging lightly in silent request before diving in. He swallowed all those little, breathless sounds like a man starved because in many respects he was; Lambert had always been content with his own hand, but Eskel was — had been, used to more. _It’s fine_ Lambert had insisted when they parted that first year. But Eskel wasn’t so sure, and he soon discovered that being with anyone else could only be described as akin to having ash in his mouth. 

So he drank Lambert in like fresh water, like fine wine, like milk and honey; he was alive, he was intoxicated, he was nourished by the all consuming presence of _Lambert_ ; his heat, his softness, his spice, his sweat, the way his body held on to Eskel, tethering him to this world and even as he pulled him higher. There was no telling who reached their peak first, each one seemingly spurring on the other as they shuddered in ecstasy, trembling as though the light of the gods sprinted through their veins. 

And then they were falling, tumbling through the air as they held onto each other, plunging into the cool depths of heavenly bliss. The world around them became somehow muted, as though they floated in the velvet night, cradled by the liquid dark and golden firelight.“I love you,” Lambert said, whispered as he panted, catching his breath. Eskel still could not speak, but he pressed his lips to Lambert’s forehead, and held him firmly to his chest. 

The younger man gathered himself enough to fetch the washcloth and basin of water Eskel always kept ready. He cleaned himself up quickly, before moving back to the bed and taking care of his lover with just as much care and reverence as he was shown at the beginning of every winter. He’d hardly enough time to set the basin aside before he was pulled to lie on top of Eskel’s broad chest, thick, tree-trunk arms wrapping around his slender waist. _I love you too,_ he said with his hands, over and over as he rubbed Lambert’s back, and he’d say it again later as he fed him, and washed his hair, and stroked his cheek when they went to sleep. At some point that night he’ll find his voice and he’ll say it aloud, but it didn’t matter when, because Lambert felt it, as he always did, in every wordless touch. 


End file.
